


The Ten Minutes

by PagesofAngels



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Dark, F/M, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-02 14:13:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8670667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PagesofAngels/pseuds/PagesofAngels
Summary: Christine bears Erik's child, and their son is everything she feared he would be. The ten minutes following her child's birth may be the most critical of Christine's life. Leroux-based.





	

For weeks she had been watching her ultimate fate loom closer, like a sheep being led to the slaughter. She had started praying nightly to whatever gods were out there, begging to be allowed to die when the time came. Well, the time came…and she lived.

Minute one. The instant she saw the tiny, underweight infant in the Daroga's hands she began to sob. Not from joy. Anything, but joy. She had somehow sensed it. From the moment she was told she was with child, she had known. The little boy's arms were like poultry bones. His legs were twisted practically into knots, and Christine vaguely wondered if he would ever be capable of using them. His ribcage protruded from a concave abdomen. It was as if he had no internal workings whatsoever. Finally, what Christine forced herself to glance at, his face…

She had to look away. Through a haze of tears, she had seen her fears confirmed.

Minute two. She closed her eyes as the small bundle was placed in her arms. She couldn't find the courage to open them. Silently, she was begging any deity that would heed her to stop her pulse and end it all.

She heard the Daroga exit the bedroom. Muted voices conversed on the other side of the wall. Resting against her chest, her son made feeble attempts at a cry. They were barely strong enough for his mother to hear over the sounds of her own.

Minute three. Her eyes opened when the doorknob clicked and her husband timidly walked in.

"Why…" Erik muttered, his voice hushed, "why is he not crying?"

"He is," Christine said. "Or, rather, he's trying."

"And he is…?"

Christine pulled the blanket over the infant's face as Erik came nearer. It wasn't deliberate, more of a reflex than anything. She realized what she had done, and drew away the covering as Erik arrived at her bedside.

With a shuddering exhale, he dropped to his knees beside her and their son.

Minute four. Erik buried his face in the sheets, one of his skeletal hands gripping the sleeve of her nightdress. She felt the chill of his skin through the fabric.

Lying still as possible, Christine waited for an emotional explosion. "What's done is done," she said flatly. She tried to swallow the dry feeling in her throat.

"I did not want this," Erik groaned, his voice muffled. "I thought, surely, any child from your womb would be pure as an angel. I corrupt everything I touch…" He looked up at her, tears gathering in his black eyes. "Everything. Now even you, my Christine."

She glanced at the infant in her arms, willing herself to look upon her newborn for a few seconds longer than before. Tears stung the corners of her eyes. She hadn't wanted this, either. She hadn't wanted any of this.

Minute five. She hadn't wanted to be married to a monster. He was a monster, not for his appearance, but for the twisted soul she knew was beneath it. She was the ultimate sacrifice to appease Paris's spirit of devastation. She had chosen to die and become buried under the opera house…with a corpse as her mate…to save the lives of many others. Including the man she loved. This man's name was forbidden, and her mind was starting to forget it in the mists of the lake.

There was a time, years ago, when she would fantasize about the family she would bring fourth with this other man. She remembered telling herself that, no matter what, she would love her children. Even if they were sickly. Even if they were not beautiful. What had changed? Why did she feel so numb?

Holding back another sob, Christine covered the face of her son again.

Minute six. Erik had seen her.

"You wretched woman," he hissed. His snake-like lisp slithered up her spine. "You are exactly like my own mother. The first thing she did was throw a cloth over my face." He reached over his wife, pulling the blanket away again as he stood up. "I _will not_ have the same done to my son."

Christine let go of a breath. She adjusted herself until she was sitting upright in the bed, her back against the downy pillows. "I'm not covering him to avoid his face," she whispered, "I don't want to see my child die."

"What are you talking about?" Erik asked, his body visibly tensing.

Christine looked at the newborn again. His head was resting on her collarbone, so she could hear every frail breath he took. He hadn't managed the strength to cry, and his breathing was growing weaker by the minute. Mothers' instinct had told her something was wrong the second the babe was placed in her arms. Her body was commanding her not to become attached to the little creature, some primal defense mechanism against the imminent loss. That was the numbness she was feeling.

"His breathing is slowing down."

Minute seven. Erik rushed from the room, shouting urgently for his friend to return.

Christine gazed at her son. Now he wasn't even attempting to cry. He wasn't moving much, either. He just rested against his mother's breast, breathing as if gravel filled his lungs.

"Your father was so excited for you," she said quietly to the newborn. "He would talk so much about…how he hoped you would be a musician. Or a singer."

A few seconds of silence. Her chest tightened, but then relaxed when the babe took another breath.

"It's not fair of you, little one," she said, "leaving me here alone. I was supposed to die today, not you. Not…"

Minute eight. The frantic sound of movement grabbed her attention from outside the bedroom door.

"Erik, there is nothing I can do," she heard the Daroga's voice say. It was followed by Erik's voice shouting something she couldn't understand. She assumed it was in Persian.

Christine gently smoothed her fingertips over the scarce strands of hair on her infant's head. There were too few locks to determine what the color was. As for the eyes, they were too sunken into the skull to make out their pigment.

"I'm sorry it had to be this way, little one," Christine continued, fresh tears brimming. "You can't help who your father is. I'm the one to blame for that."

She softly pressed a kiss to the top of her tiny son's head. "You're not fit for this world. That's alright. We're not fit for you, either. Your father and I…we don't deserve you." She sniffed and tried to dry her eyes on her shoulder. "Besides, I'm sure your grandfather wants to see you."

Minute nine. Both Erik and the Daroga reentered the room, but stopped in the doorway upon seeing Christine's tears. Erik opened his mouth, as if to ask. Christine, no longer hearing the gravelly breathing of her infant, shook her head to give the answer.

The Daroga had to catch Erik as his knees gave out. Carefully, he maneuvered his grief-stricken friend to the edge of the bed beside the mother and child. Christine let her silent tears fall, but Erik – it seemed – was in too much shock. At the back of her mind, Christine wondered if the shock would be enough to kill him. A small portion of her, somewhere, wished it would.

Minute ten. Christine let out a gasp of surprise when her husband abruptly pulled her into a tight embrace. She felt him nestle into the crook of her shoulder and remain there, just quietly holding his wife and newborn.

For as much as this man had taken from her, as much as he had forcibly altered the course of her life, Christine knew the blame was not all his. For better or worse, his was the life she had chosen. His life underneath the opera house, and all of the consequences that came with it. They were a burden she had chosen to bear with him. This, she realized, was no exception.

She embraced her husband in return, and the two of them remained that way. Even when the Daroga left the room to let them mourn, they remained that way. Mourning their shared loss. Carrying their shared burden of blame.


End file.
